Savage
by hero7leander
Summary: The New World is brutal. Eat or be eaten. Literally. Jo, a lone survivor, did whatever was necessary to survive. But when she is taken in by a group of strangers, she is torn between the savage and the civil. What is too far gone?
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own any of the Walking Dead characters. Just playing around with 'em.**

.

.

.

She came over the rise and found the stream. She crouched down and began filling up her collection of wrinkled, plastic water bottles. She kept a wary eye on the forest around her.

A branch snapped on the other side of the bank and she froze, eyes scanning furiously for any kind of movement. A shuffle of leaves zoned her eyes onto a brown shape moving through the underbrush toward her. A deer.

She relaxed and watched the animal cautiously approach the water. The wind must have been in her favor because it didn't even glance her way. She was hungry. She'd been hungry for days and considered briefly trying to kill it, but she didn't have the weapons or the energy. Even if she managed, it was too big to carry anywhere, too big to eat on her own, and she knew she'd lose most of it to the undead who walked the earth and ate everything they came across.

She sighed. She'd never have thought starvation would be her undoing, not in America, the land of plenty.

This summer marked the end of the first year since the outbreak of the virus that caused the dead to come back to life and attack anything they came across. It was stupid that in the midst of summer she still couldn't keep herself fed. Scavenging through the abandoned suburbs and towns was yielding less and less. Canned goods were a finite resource so it made sense they'd be scarcer now.

The deer's head came up and its tail flicked furiously.

There was a _twang_ from the bushes and an arrow suddenly quivered in the oak a few feet above her head. Jo leapt to her feet and began sprinting through the underbrush at the same time as the deer bounded away in the opposite direction.

They had the choice of chasing the deer or her. No matter who they were, she had the sinking feeling they were going to choose her. She heard sticks snap and bushes shake as her pursuer tore through the underbrush after her. Panic spurred her steps as she tore up a ridge side.

"Hey, hold up!" A man hollered. "I ain't gonna hurt you!"

 _Not likely_.

But he was gaining, his footsteps were louder. Panic gave her an extra burst of speed. She flew down an embankment and rounded a rocky outcrop and smacked straight into another man. They went down in a tangle of limbs. She frantically shoved him away, but he caught her arms in an iron grip, spun her around, and slammed her to the ground.

 _A trap_ , she realized and twisted under his weight. It was like trying to wiggle out from under a mountain. He laughed and the sour stink of his breath seemed to stick to her and her body panicked to get away. She snarled and tried to throw her head into his but he jerked back out of range and laughed. "Check it out! Got us a live one!"

She heard a gun cock overhead. "Put it down! Put it down or I blow her brains out."

The man with the halitosis from hell shifted on top of her to look behind him. She bucked her hips hard and almost threw him off. He swore as she scrambled to her knees. He yanked her back by her hair, punched her twice in quick succession, and slammed her back down on her back. As she lay stunned, her head ringing like a bell, he stripped her off her satchel and caught her wrists again and bound them tight with a shoelace in front of her. The string bit into the still-healing skin around her wrists. Tears leaked out of her eyes.

She turned her led to see the hunter held at gun point. He was a lean man with a mess of brown hair and strong, tan arms. The gunman was a wiry man with long salt-and-pepper hair secured in a ponytail.

"Right, now the knife too." Sullenly, the hunter unholstered a buck knife at his side and that joined the crossbow on the ground in front of him. "Alright, step forward now, come on." He was forced away from his weapons and made to kneel.

"Try him up, Hank. Girl, you try'n run and I'll shoot you faster than a wetback whelps," the man with the gun warned in a heavy southern accent. Her assailant got off her and cautiously approached the hunter. He had a swarthy complexion and a flat, ugly face. The moment he grabbed the hunter's arm, she was up and running. A bullet in the brain was better than what they had in mind, she knew. Shouts behind her, the gun _banged_ , and a brick hit her in the side. With her hands bound in front of her, the force of the impact knocked her off her feet.

She landed painfully on her shoulder, her head slightly below her feet because of the angle of the hill. Hot fire spread over her left side and she struggled to breathe. Her hand felt her side and came back bloody. She jerked herself into looking position and, pulling back her poncho, saw a deep gash as thick as her forefinger, gouged from her side, just below her ribcage. Hot, dark blood poured down her side. She pulled in a wheezy gulp of air and scrambled to orient herself.

"Freeze, princess," The gunman said right behind her as she regained her feet. She froze. Fear turned her legs wooden. She turned her head slightly to see him breathing hard and holding a pistol about six feet from her head. "Don't make me do it. I told you, you run, I shoot. Next time, I'll put a bullet through your knee, see if I don't."

At his command, she walked back to their campsite. The hunter was bleeding on the ground by their dead fire pit. He was bound, hand and foot, and looked pissed.

"Mm, you are a pretty, little thing," the other, Hank, said with wolfish appreciation.

"You're not really my type," the hunter sneered. He, too, had a noticeable southern drawl.

"I wasn't talking to you, you dumbass redneck chicken-fucker." The man kicked him in the gut and the hunter buckled.

"Here," The gunman shoved her into his partner's meaty paws. "I feel like playing a different toy."

Hank pulled his own substantial knife out of a side holster and in a few quick movements cut through her blood-smeared poncho and shirt. Her sports bra took him a few awkward moments. As he worked on sawing through it, she saw the gunman pick up the crossbow and sit on a log opposite the hunter.

"Seeing as y'all are traveling so light, I reckon y'all got a camp around here. I don't suppose you'd just want to go ahead and spare yourself a little pain and tell me where it is now, eh?"

"Don't suppose so," the hunter spat.

"We are going to have us some fun, aren't we girlie?" the Hispanic chuckled into her ear, squeezing her breast too hard. She turned her face away from the swell of his rotten breath, but it didn't help. He pressed up against her and slide his hands over her.

"Please. Let me go." She heard herself say in a scared, pathetic voice.

He just laughed, pumping out puffs of noxious fumes like a freight train. "Oh yeah, beg me, blanca, beg me and I'll give ya something good."

 _Like hell this is happening again_ , she thought wildly, as his hands groped her. _Fear kills faster than bullets_. She stuffed all her fear into a small part of her mind and began looking for something, anything, that could help. Her eyes fell on the knife strapped to Hank's thigh. He hadn't clipped it back into place after he'd cut her shirt off.

Distantly she heard the crossbow twange and the hunter cry out.

"Oi! Take it easy. He'll bring the skin-eaters down on us," Hank snarled at his companion. In the moment he was distracted, she managed to partially wiggle out from under him. She shoved her knee into his elbow, sending him off balance, and scrambled away.

"Where you hurrying off to, cupcake?" He grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her back. "I ain't even started with you yet."

There was a loud rustle of leaves and the other man cursed. As Hank popped the button off her jeans, she saw the gunman rise and wander out of view. She was blubbering like a baby while she watched the knife out of the corner of her eye. He struggled to roll off her jeans and she slammed the side of her hip up into his crotch. He yowled and smacked her. She cringed away from the blow and turned that movement into a lunge for the knife.

Her hand locked around the hard handle and she yanked it toward her, then up into Hank's soft belly. Hot blood laced down her hands and he yelped like a kicked dog. She twisted the knife up under his ribcage into his lungs. He reeled backward and she almost lost the knife. He stared in disbelief at the blood darkening his shirt and pink, frothy spittle colored his lips. She frantically disentangled herself from him.

From the corner of her eye, she saw his cohort running toward them with his gun up. She shoved away from the dying man and dove at the log where he'd left the crossbow. She heard the gun's crack and heard a _whizz_ by her ear. She brought the crossbow up, aimed with one eye, and squeezed the trigger. He dropped, a neon orange fletched arrow jutting from his chest like a flag.

He moaned and clutched at the bolt as she half ran, half slid to him. She buried the bloody knife through his ugly dark eye with a satisfying squish, relishing the wild fear in his eyes. Hank was crawling toward the crossbow she'd dropped. She ran back to him, kicked him square in the face, and, as he fell backward, sunk the knife into his temple with both hands.

She had to move. The gunshot was bound to attract the dead. Her eyes fell on the hunter who was struggling against his bonds. He had a crossbow bolt sticking from his shoulder. She dropped the gun and grabbed the knife. Awkwardly, she flipped it upside down and sawed at her bindings. The shoelace parted like butter. She flexed her wrists, trying to ignore their stinging.

"You gonna let me go or what?" The hunter growled. They both heard the distinctive crunch of leaves through the trees. Deaders incoming. She looked back at him, her mind churning. He'd been chasing her, forced her into the clutches of those dead assholes. By right, she should kill him too and run and not look back. She retrieved the gun and checked the clip—only one left—then put the barrel against his temple and watched his face lock down.

"Why the fuck were you following me?"

He grimaced. "Thought you might need some help."

"Bullshit." She pressed the gun into his head.

"I ain't like them," he spat scornfully.

"Bullshit." It didn't have the same force. One of the deaders was getting close, already eagerly snapping at them with lipless, yellowed teeth. She knew what she should do, but…

"So then kill me already. Either cut me free or pull the trigger. The hell you waiting for?"

She hated being told what to do. She shoved the knife into his bound hands. "Save yourself, jackass."

She put a round into a deader right as it lunged for the bound hunter. She picked up her bag, hugged it to her chest, and started running.

"Okay, assholes!" She shouted, drawing them away from the hunter. "Over here!"

She barreled into a half-eaten corpse of a man with enough for to impale it on a twisting branch behind it and slammed her knife sideways into the base of its skull. "Let's see how fast you run for your dinner!" she shouted as she took a moment to pry the knife free. Her plan was working very well, she realized. A quick glance around saw nine weather-rotten faces in pursuit.

She led them away as fast as she could. Her abdominal muscles were clenched, involuntarily trying to prevent exacerbation of her injury, making every other step a cramping thunderbolt of pain. _All it takes is one_ , she reminded herself as she dodged around a wide tree. _One false step, one I don't see_ , _and they'll be all over me_. They were like sharks, she swore, attracted to the scent of fresh blood more than anything. Already blood had saturated through the top of her jeans.

She got to the road, pausing at the tree line for a cursory look. There was a small town a few miles up the road and she knew a few secure nooks and crannies she could hole up in. Sticking to the trees, she limped onward. The wind shifted and a cool breeze ran over her face. She breathed deep and froze. The stench of death rolled over her like a tank. She knew from experience what a smell that bad and that strong meant. Instinct told her not to go forward. As she edged back to the tree line, she heard the moans, a distant, rising chorus, up ahead and glimpsed the first heads marching in a decomposing phalanx. The dead behind her were catching up. Maybe she could cut through the middle and—

"C'mon," a low, raspy voice said behind her. She jumped like a cat in a water, almost falling on her ass, and turned to see the hunter. He was crouched low, watching the road intently. The arrow gone from his shoulder. "This way." He turned and ran in a crouch through a piney thicket.

Not seeing any better options, she followed.


	2. Chapter 2

The hunter slipped like water through the trees, leading her around and up a rise that blocked the road from view. His crossbow took care of any dead things in their path. He'd yank the bolts free from a corpse in a fluid motion, hardly breaking stride. Neither of them were up for sprinting, but they moved with the hustle of those who did not want to get eaten alive.

A fugly corpse with putrid greening skin lunged at her with a nasally _snark_. She threw both her hands onto her knife and let the deader impale its head on her blade, deflecting the deader's fall to her side. The impact almost knocked her down, almost snapped her battered wrists, and her knife was ripped from her hand as the body sank. She swore as she paused to yank out it free from being wedged tight into the bone.

She barely managed to wrench it free before the next deader drunkenly rushed her. She rose up from her haunches into a powerful motion with a cry of anger and pain as her side pulled and thrust her knife upward under its half-remaining jaw into the base of its skull. She shoved the corpse away with her forearms and spun to face another snarling undead cannibal freak. Before she could take a step, a bolt jerked its head backward and the body fell with a heavy thud. She dashed toward what she quickly realized was a growing crowd of deaders lurching through the trees toward her to grab the hunter's bolt and hurriedly turned tail.

They jogged until they came upon an open field with a barn on the far side. They made a beeline for it. The doors were long gone, but the loft seemed intact.

In a matter of minutes, she was laying on her back in thick prickly straw, panting, and black spots filling her vision. The man lay flat beside her, his chest heaving. A few minutes later, they heard the moans. Their flight must have attracted the attention of those on the road because the noise she heard was much more than a dozen of biters. A lot more. She was afraid to look. A tremor ran through the barn as one, then another, and more bounced against the barn. She stifled a flutter of terror and squeezed her eyes shut.

 _A herd so big it could rip the barn down._ The barn shuddered as the cacophony of snarls and wheezy moans reached a dull roar. The ladder to the loft snapped off with an ear-splitting _crack_ and she jumped involuntarily.

A calloused hand found hers and squeezed. She opened her eyes and saw the hunter watching her with steady eyes of an indeterminate blue-green color. _We're not dying here_ , his expression said. She nodded slightly. His eyes drifted downward to her chest and a faint smile touched his lips.

She couldn't exactly fault him for enjoying the view as they literally dangled above the jaws of death, but it was still skeevy. She jerked her hand out of his and flashed him the finger as she defensively wrapped her other arm over her chest. His smirk widened, but he looked away.

After a few minutes the frequency with which the barn shook lessened and their wordless hungry chorus ebbed. Slowly the _ughhs_ and _nrrghs_ faded to an incredible, delicate silence. The man sat up and shook the straw from his hair. She did likewise, using her arms to push herself up to minimize the use of her abused and aching abdominal muscles. She grabbed her bag and held it over her chest.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" she hissed at him, her sliding into the bag and finding the gun.

"How about a 'thank you' for not leaving your ass to the walkers?"

"Fuck off. I was doing just fine until you started shooting at me this morning," she growled as she pulled out the gun and trained it on him. He gave her an unimpressed scowl.

"I wasn't shooting at you. I didn't even know you was there. I was shooting at the damn deer."

"Then your aim fucking sucks."

"I didn't see you complaining when I was covering your ass ten minutes ago," he replied hotly. "When you went all rabbit, I don't know, you looked like you could use some back up and I knew if I didn't follow you I'd never get a chance."

She eyed him suspiciously. "You got a camp around here?"

He nodded curtly.

"And you just want to take me there… out of the goodness of your heart?"

"It ain't just for you. People make us stronger—the right ones anyway. More people we got, the easier it is to defend what we got. That's why I followed you. You need people and so do we."

"I left you tied up surrounded by deaders. What about that makes me one of 'the right ones?'" She narrowed her eyes.

"You gave me a chance."

"Not much of one."

"Enough for me." His seafoam eyes were serious. She hesitated.

To cover her uncertainty, she held out a bloodstained hand. "Give me your shirt."

Without a word, he slid off his leather vest, revealing a black sleeveless button up. His fingers fumbled over the buttons. His right fingers didn't move as dexterously as the left. He winced as he eased his right shoulder out of the sleeve. The bolt had hit him just below his collar bone. He tossed her shirt. It was damp with his blood and sweat. Slowly, she put the gun down beside her.

She tore her eyes away from his tan, lean torso and fished her knife from her bag. She ripped the shirt into two sections. She slid on the top portion for modesty's sake. The tattered remnant fell just above the bottom of her ribcage, leaving her wound still exposed. It was, she saw, was a bloody mess of leafy debris and straw. The bottom portion she tore into three strips.

"How many walkers you killed?" he asked her as she worked.

"I don't fucking know," she growled, wincing as she plucked a few of the bigger bits from her wound. "A lot."

"How many people have you killed?"

"Not enough."

"Just answer the question."

"Five," she admitted and watched the hunter from the corner of her eye. She used one piece of fabric to stem the bleeding and tied the other around her to hold it in place.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not some helpless damsel," she paused to catch his eye and told him with absolute sincerity, "I kill the shit out of people that fuck with me. Now. How many people have you killed?"

"A lot," he said steadily. "Everyone one of them I killed, they came after me or my group first."

"Makes them qualified for extinction in my book," she agreed as she scooted over to the edge of the loft and surveyed the scene. The ladder lay in trampled pieces and she couldn't begin to tally up the footsteps stamped into the thick muddy floor. Maybe a hundred, maybe more.

"We got a prison. It's secure against walkers. We got a farm, medical supplies, antibiotics. We can patch you up, give you someplace safe until you're healed up. Nobody'll make you stay if you don't want to. Unless you want to be out here alone, starving and bleeding."

The starving comment bothered her because it was true. She'd been living hand-to-mouth the past few weeks and she'd lost too much weight. Fall would be here before she knew it. And with this wound, her chances of survival had just fallen significantly. But going with him was risking her life. He could be lying. Even if he wasn't, prison or not, no place was safe.

Her frown deepened and she eased herself down what remained of the ladder, dropping to the ground. Despite how soft the landing, the impact caused an explosion of pain in her side that left her head cartwheeling and the rest of her in the fetal position in the mud. The hunter dropped down and was picking her up almost before she realized what happened. Her side was a hot wash of pain and new crimson rivulets oozed from under the makeshift bandage.

"Guess I don't have anything better to do," she gasped as she found her feet. She shrugged away from his touch. No matter what he said, she needed a place to heal, she didn't need people.

"Where's this camp of yours?" she asked as they exited the barn.

"About six miles or so," he gestured loosely.

Six miles sounded like a long way to her at the moment. Every step made her side ache fiercely and she knew it needed to be treated sooner rather than later. It only took a few minutes of trying to keep up with his pace for black spots to dance in her view. Despite her efforts, she lagged, light-headed. The last thing she needed was to trip and break an ankle. She leaned against a thick tree, closing her eyes, trying to catch her breath and quell her dizziness.

She heard leaves crunching nearby as the hunter returned. Then a wet squish and a noisy crash into the leaves. Her eyes flew open and found a deader at her feet with a neon-tipped arrow jutting from its skull. The hunter sauntered over and gave her a pointed look as he yanked his bolt free. She nodded a silent thanks and pushed herself away from the tree. They started off again, this time the hunter stayed by her side.

When they came upon a stream, he pointed to a flat rock at the water's edge. Obediently she sat and he crouched in front of her. His nearness conjured up unpleasant memories, but she forced herself to sit still and endure. He carefully untied the bindings and cleaned them in the water. His hands were rough, but his touch was surprisingly gentle.

"You got a name?" he asked quietly. He kept his eyes down, trained on his hands, avoiding her gaze. He flushed her wound with palmfulls of icy water.

"Yeah," she grimaced. "Do you?" All the attention made her side burned hellishly.

"Daryl." He squeezed the bandages out, rewrapped her wound, and offered her a hand up.

"Jo," she accepted it uneasily. She stepped away quickly when she regained her feet. The shadows were starting to lengthen.

"I know a place we can hole up for the night."

She raised an eyebrow. "I can make it."

He gave her a _yeah right_ look but said nothing more and they stepped off. Jo managed to limp what she hoped was a mile before she called for a break. She was sweating and almost trembling as she leaned against a tree. Her vision tilted for a precarious moment, but she managed to stay upright.

"You good?"

"Just need a few minutes," she panted. She wondered how much blood she'd lost.

"Take your time," he pulled out a stubby cigarette and lit it up. "I ain't got nowhere to be."

She took him at his word. After a few long moments, she decided to phish to see what kind of place she was marching into. "What do you like best about this place?"

He shrugged. "There's enough room for everybody, enough room to bring people in. It's secure."

"Walls don't mean safe."

"No," he agreed. "But it's better than being out here."

Daryl suddenly held up his hand and she held still. He brought his crossbow up. It twanged and she heard a squeal. He'd pinned a squirrel against a tree. He went over and yanked it out. Then he sat down and began butchering it. Jo crouched nearby watching in fascination as he peeled its skin away and began gutting it. A moment later he handed her a bloody morsel. The liver, she was pretty sure. She popped it in her mouth without hesitation. It was hot, bloody, and delicious.

He built a small fire—in record time, by her account. He was easily ten times faster than she was. When Daryl had to get up to kill walkers, she took over roasting the squirrel. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had fresh, hot meat and the succulent smell alone made her body tremble. She ate quickly and without manners. Daryl followed suit.

They continued on shortly and as the shadows deepened, Daryl led her to a tiny dilapidated house covered in moss and dirt. He kicked the paint-chipped, half-rotted door. No groans or moans. He pushed open the door, crossbow up, and entered. Jo waited outside, leaning tiredly against a tree.

"C'mon," he called and she entered with her knife raised.

The room inside made a rat's nest look neat. It was a jumble of debris—yellowed, decayed papers, clothing, old plastic cups, a busted TV, a ratty recliner, and more. Once she was inside, Daryl shut the door behind her and slid the recliner behind the door. He flopped down on it with a tired huff. Jo made her way to an old mattress in the corner.

Though she was locked in with a stranger, Jo felt oddly safe. If he meant her harm, he'd had plenty of opportunities to strike. For better or worse, she was confident he would get her to his camp. After that… but she was too tired to worry about that yet. She closed her eyes and quickly fell into a light, uneasy sleep.

She woke shivering. It was dark. She listened for a moment to the light, regular breathing of her new companion, before getting up to blindly search through the debris for anything warm. All she could find was a thin, musty tablecloth. When she pulled it, a handful of objects clattered to the floor.

"What are you doing?" Daryl growled.

"Trying not to freeze my ass off," she replied snarkily.

"Here," he grunted and something fell nearby her. Blindly groping with her hands, she found a thick, rank-smelling sweatshirt. It was already warm. She slipped it on and wrapped the tablecloth around her. The smell was god-awful, but she stopped shivering.

"How long you been out here on your own?" he asked after a few minutes.

"I don't know. Weeks, maybe longer."

"Was it walkers?"

"Nah. People. We got ambushed going into Columbus. They had snipers." Just thinking about how she'd lost her last group made her throat tighten and her eyes burn. For a moment, she was thankful for the cover of night.

"Sorry."

"Yeah, me too," she sighed softly. In the darkness, she could see the faces of her dead friends. Already they were starting to blur and become indistinct in her memory which made it all the worse. She needed a distraction. "Tell me about your people."

He obliged. They'd met outside of Atlanta after its fall. Most of them had been together since the beginning. He told her about the cop and the farmer, their children, a lawyer with a wicked sword, and a crazy Korean sonvuabitch. He even mentioned some of the new arrivals he'd brought in—most recently was a group of kids from UGA. He wasn't particularly forthcoming, but she could tell he cared deeply for them all. It made her heart ache all the more for what she'd lost.

"Sounds like y'all got the whole damn band," she said weakly when he finished.

"You got a helluva mouth on you, you know that?" he said lightly.

 _Dirty mouth, dirty mind_ , she heard Gibson's ghost laugh.

"Been around a bunch of shit-mouthed marines too long. Guess I picked up a bad habit or two."

"You military?"

"Fuck no." She almost laughed. Almost. "I was born with a fully functional brain. I hate being told what to do."

"Can't make it being little Miss Independent anymore. You need people to survive."

"I know," she said suddenly struck quiet by the weight of what he said. She wasn't wholly convinced she wanted to survive anymore. After losing her home, her family, her friends, her hope… she had nothing left. Just her life, which hadn't recently been holding much value. Survival just be another stupid habit she'd picked up.

A heavy silence descended. She tried to clear her mind and focused on taking regular, slow breaths until sleep overtook her again.


	3. Chapter 3

_Darkness pressed in around her, encasing, caging her. Her hands frantically slid across obscure walls, finding no faults or weaknesses. She heard teeth clicking together in the dark, indistinct chattering, harsh laughter. Hands grabbed her ankles and yanked her down, down, sinking, falling, going to hit the –_

She jerked awake and immediately groaned as pain spiked through her side. Night had faded to an early morning blue. She dragged herself into a sitting position and rubbed her arms vigorously. She was shivering and sweating which wasn't a good sign. On top of that, her head throbbed inside and out and her wrists felt as delicate as shattered china glued back together.

Daryl was leaning against a wall, silhouetted in the light from the window, and puffing on a cigarette. Though she didn't see him glance her way once, she felt like unconscious attention.

"Those things will kill you," she muttered, her voice hoarse from sleep.

He took an unhurried draw. "Only if I live. Considering the current state of the world, I'll take my chances."

She rummaged in her bag and retrieved a package of peanuts she'd been saving. She swallowed down half the cache on a dry mouth. She asked for water with an inquiring noise and a gesture and he tossed her a half-full plastic bottle. After a few gulps, she struggled to her feet. Her joints felt stiff and brittle and the movement sent sharp spears of pain lancing across her sore, battered abdomen. She considered sharing the peanuts—it would be the polite, civilized thing, a ghost told her—but her body was dumb with fatigue and she needed all the fuel she could get so she finished the bag and tossed the water back. "We good to go?"

"Waiting on you, Sleeping Beauty."

"If I'm stuck with your hick ass as my Prince Charming, I'm going back to sleep," she muttered darkly as she clambered painfully to her feet. Dirty, hungry, wounded, and wearing a moldy, stinking sweater, she'd never felt less like a princess.

"My hick ass is the one saving yours so you best quit your jawing," he growled as he pushed the recliner away from the door and slipped out into the cool morning. She tore off the foul sweater and trailed after him. They walked in comfortable silence. It was simple being with him. He wasn't inclined to talk and neither was she. They didn't need to—a gesture here, a nod there was all it took.

It was late morning when she first spied the prison. She was feeling light-headed and her limp had worsened from the hike so she braced herself against a tree and took a long moment to survey the compound. It was a blocky concrete fortress surrounded by layers of chain link fences. Its image of strength was undercut by the horde of undead pressing against the outermost fence. She could hear the moans from here. She saw a handful of people walking along the perimeter and picking off the dead with hand tools.

Seeing the place, the people, brought the reality of her choice crashing down on her. Her faith in the hunter's good intentions seemed increasingly stupid and naïve.

"Looks popular."

"It is."

"Y'all got this whole place?"

"Nah. Part of the prison got blown out, but we've secured the west yard and few sections inside." Anxiety writhed in her stomach like an angry snake.

"I'm going to ask you something," she said slowly, "and I saved your life so you owe me an honest answer." It was a silly, pointless thing to say, but she couldn't seem to stop herself.

"Thought I saved myself?" he responded drily.

"I saved your life when I put a knife in your hand instead of a bullet in your brain," she replied impatiently. "You owe me. So tell me, if I walk into that prison, will I be allowed to walk out?"

"You'll be free to leave whenever you like."

"If you're lying and leading me into a trap, if you and your people decide to fuck with me, I swear I'll make sure you regret not choosing the deer." She wasn't sure if she could back up her threat—in fact, she was being to have some serious doubts—but she would damn well do her best. Or die trying.

"It ain't a trap." To her annoyance, the hunter's face remained impassive and unreadable.

With nothing more to say, she white-knuckled her knife and gestured for him to continue. They went down a wooded slope to a road. When they approached a small bridge, Daryl told her to hold up and veered off the road. She watched him as he disappeared into the thick underbrush before she slunk into the tree line to wait.

A few moments later, he returned pushing a dusty black motorcycle. She groaned inwardly. Of course he had a bike. It explained the leather vest. It wasn't even all-terrain capable, like a dirt bike. No, it was a fat fucking hog with high handlebars.

"Hop on," he shot her a boyish grin as he straddled it. Reluctantly she climbed on and the bike roared to life. Her grip tightened reflexively as the bike lurched forward and she found herself clinging to him as they cruised the stretch up to the prison.

The front gate had been modified from a simple chain-link to two solid-looking iron doors angled out from rows of wooden barriers lined with stakes. As they neared, a woman broke away from clearing the fence and ran toward the gate. The others began shouting and jumping around to attract the dead. A sniper in the guard tower made short work of the biters in their path. The woman cranked on a pulley, the iron gates parted, and Jo was carried inside the compound. The gates snapped shut behind her with an iron clatter.

The bike came to a stop beside the woman.

"What happened out there? You okay?" She put her hand on Daryl's bare arm.

"Yeah," he grunted. "Got jumped by some assholes. Jo here saved me."

"Can't wait to hear that story." The woman cast a curious, appraising look over his shoulder at Jo. Her gaze fell to Jo's poorly-bandaged side and the smile disappeared from her face. The vibrations of the bike caused her side to bleed and itch fiercely. "I'll grab Hershel and have him meet you in C."

The hunter nodded and they rumbled up through the yard toward the prison. The passed through another section of fence onto the blacktop. Jo spotted at least a dozen people, even a few children coloring with chalk. Their faces turned toward the deafening motorcycle. Some even waved. Daryl brought them to a stop by a wall with C Block stamped on it in big white letters.

Eyes open, ears on, knife ready, Jo dismounted carefully. She scouted her escape options, but between the guard towers, the multiple fences, and the massive pile-up of deaders outside, it didn't look good. Jo sweated and tried to control the first waves of panic and nausea. Daryl led her through a covered side entrance into the cool, dim depths of the prison. Fear made her throat dry and her heart hammer.

They came into a large room occupied by a mocha skinned woman and a young blonde girl. They greeted the hunter and asked him a question but Jo felt like she had cotton stuffed in her ears. Her chest was tight and she had to concentrate on breathing regularly. Her eyes darted between the barred windows, iron doors, solid concrete floors and walls. She'd just walked herself inside a prison—a legit one, this time, one she doubted she could escape. Her mind screamed _run_ , but her legs were frozen. She heard a _whooshing_ sound like the ocean—

"Jo?" Her attention jerked to the hunter. He relaxed at a table made of pallets in the center of the room. From the concerned inquiry on his face, she realized she'd missed a question. "You good?"

She didn't know. She couldn't find any words. He chewed his lip as he regarded her.

"Give us a minute, will ya?" he asked the other women. They obliged, casting curious looks her way as they disappeared through an iron-barred door. Daryl got up and crossed over to Jo, taking her by the elbow, and gently guided her to a seat at the table. "First time in the big house, huh?"

She was spared having to answer by the opening of the door. The woman from the gate and an old, white-whiskered man entered. He greeted Daryl warmly and introduced himself as Hershel Greene. He limped toward them on a crutch and Jo realized he was missing the bottom part of his right leg.

"Carol, will you grab my kit out of my cell?" The woman nodded and disappeared through the same door as the other women. "Alright, Mr. Dixon, let me see what trouble you've done to yourself this time," he said as he limped to the table. Daryl gingerly peeled off his vest to reveal a nasty looking puncture wound.

"Bet that doesn't feel too good."

"I've had worse," Daryl said dismissively. "So have you."

"Yes, I suppose so," Hershel smiled. Carol returned with a small duffel bag and offered to fetch some water. As Hershel began cleaning Daryl's wound, he told Jo how he'd gotten bit in their first few days in the prison, before they'd cleared all the sections they could. He'd had his leg hacked off with an axe to stop the infection. Jo just watched him warily.

"Looks like it went clean through, no broken bones," Hershel said pulled out sutures and a thin metal hook. "I'll put in a few stitches, but the most important thing your shoulder will need to heal is time. I don't want you shooting for at least two weeks."

"Ain't got two weeks to take off. People gotta eat."

"You need to take it easy. Too much stress and your muscles won't heal—or you're injure yourself worse and you'll be laid up for two months. We have the snares and enough people to make runs. We can manage a week or two without your hunting expertise."

Daryl gave a noncommittal grunt.

"We're out of local anesthetic," Hershel said apologetically. Instead he gave Daryl a mild sedative to help with the pain. Jo shifted nervously. She knew the hunter's loyalty was to this group, not her, but she couldn't help feeling that if he passed out she would truly be alone in the lion's den. Bleeding, exhausted, and battered, she'd just served herself up on a platter. All she had was a little blade that would only do mortal damage if aimed just right, good for one kill most likely. She'd have to make it count. Maybe grab a hostage.

The door rattled open again and Carol returned with a bucket of water and another man. Carol set the bucket of water on the table. The man had strong, broad shoulders and dark, loosely curling hair. By the sheen of sweat and the odd smear of dirt on his face, she could tell he'd been working hard outside. Even in the dim light of the prison, she found herself captured by his piercing, artic blue eyes. There was something direct and dangerous in his stare that made her edgy.

"Glad you made it back in one piece," the man nodded at Daryl.

"Almost didn't," he grimaced as Hershel pulled a suture through. "Jackasses nearly kabobed me with my own damn crossbow."

"You take care of them?"

"Jo did." She felt all their eyes on her and her heart pitched.

"You kill them?" the man asked in a practiced, neutral tone that betrayed nothing. He'd hooked his thumbs into his belt. This had to be the cop that Daryl mentioned.

She nodded.

"Good. We're grateful to have Daryl back. He means a lot to a lot of people around here. My name is Rick Grimes. Has he told you how things work around here?"

"Not exactly."

"First of all, we don't allow new arrivals to carry weapons." He nodded at her knife. "It's for our safety. For the first few weeks we hold on to your weapons and lock you in your cell at night, just as a precaution. Once we get to know you better, you'll get your weapons back."

"You're not locking me up."

"Just at night. Just for a while, until we're sure you aren't a danger."

"You're not locking me up." An edge of panic entered her voice.

"Relax," Rick held his hands up. "No one is going to hurt you. Just put the knife down."

Jo realized she was standing. Rick took a step forward and she immediately hopped backward until her back felt the wall. Carol, she realized as she scanned the room, had slipped out of the room. Getting God knows who or what. "J-just let me go."

"Jo, calm down." Daryl was on his feet too. "We ain't taking you prisoner."

"You want to take my weapons and lock me in a cage I can't possibly escape from, but I won't be a prisoner? Fuck you," she spat at the hunter, letting fury overwhelm her fear. "I know this game. You can either kill me now or let me go. Those are the options. You're not locking me up."

"C'mon, sit down." Daryl reached for her arm but this time she brought her knife up. He gave her an exasperated look, but she didn't lowered the blade. Her hand trembled slightly, but not from lack of resolve.

"One more step and I'll gut you," she warned him. She was a fucking fool. Only an idiot would've trusted him. Of course it was a trap. No one wanted to help her out the kindness of their hearts. The only kindness strangers offered these days is a quick death. She would not be so kind to him.

"Put the knife down, Jo," Rick ordered. She turned her glare his way. He was coiled tight and watched her with the cold surety of a killer. She had the abrupt, furious desire to sink her blade into one of those icy blue eyes and watch the bewilderment, fear, and pain play across his face as he died.

"Easy, Jo," Daryl said, moving to stand between her and Rick. "If you want to leave right now, no one's gonna stop you. You'd be a damn fool though. How long you think you'd last out there?"

Jo hesitated, logic and fear fighting like rabid dogs in her mind. She didn't trust any of them, but her side hurt like the devil himself had crawled inside and was throwing a house party.

"Sit down. Let Hershel patch you up. No one'll mess with you."

Leaving now she'd be dead soon anyway. She nodded slightly and, keeping a wary eye on Rick, slunk back to the table.

"Let's take a look at that side," Hershel said gently.

"The knife," Rick said quietly.

"You want my knife so fucking bad, you come and take it," Jo snarled, half-standing and wrenching her side so badly her vision went black for a second. Daryl put a hand on her shoulder and eased her back down.

"Rick, I think we can handle it from here," Hershel said firmly, giving him a pointed look. "Why don't you go check on Carl? Make sure he's not weeding out any those tomato shoots?"

She saw the muscles of his jaw clench, but Rick nodded calmly. "We'll talk later," he promised as he left. Daryl collapsed in the seat next to her with a weary sigh.

"Damn, woman, you ever stop being trouble?"

She didn't say anything. Hershel peeled off her bandages and made a small displeased noise when he saw the deep, bloody gash. He offered her the same sedative he'd given the hunter, but she refused. A sedative could incapacitate her. Let them do anything they wanted to her. She endured the cleaning with only a couple hisses of pain. A strangled yelp escaped her when the needle first bit through her hyper-sensitive skin, but she swallowed the rest of her cries as he knit her tender flesh together. After a few impossibly long and grueling minutes, Hershel tied in the last suture and secured a bandage in place.

"Alright, that's done. Now let me see those wrists." The recent binding had cut tender crimson ribbons into thick scabs above ugly green and yellow bruises. Hershel interlocked his fingers with hers and rotated her wrists gently. When he pressed backward, she gasped at a sudden stab of pain. Hershel put the back of his hand to her forehead.

"That's what I thought. You're burning up. You have a low-grade infection. It's treatable, but we need to act fast. And you may have sprained or fractured your left wrist." He handed her a bottle labeled cyclacillin. Jo inspected the medicine. Only after she found that the pill matched the description on the bottle, did she take one and swallow it dry.

Hershel watched at her pensively, his bushy white eyebrows knitted together. "I can see you've encountered your share of trouble out there. I know not everyone has been as fortunate as we have, finding a place like this and people strong enough to defend it. But as long as you're here with us, you'll be safe."

 _Safe doesn't exist anymore_ , she wanted to say, but bit held her tongue because he seemed like a nice old man who needed to believe in good things. He probably believed in heaven too. Instead she just mumbled thanks.

Hershel smiled. "Now, when's the last time you had a decent meal?"


	4. Chapter 4

She woke slowly, drifting up toward consciousness like a scuba diver rising from the depths of the ocean. Strange voices were talking nearby.

"...just temporary."

"It's dangerous. I don't want…"

"…half-starved, terrified…" The voices faded.

 _GONNA DIE HERE BITCH_ , Anderson thundered.

Jo's eyes flew open, but everything was still and quiet. No Anderson. Not anymore.

 _He doesn't matter anymore_ , Jo told herself sternly. _He lost_.

Her head pounded like a war drum and her thoughts felt fuzzy and muddled. Slowly she sat up and her hand vainly sought her knife, but came up empty. She frowned trying to recall the events that led her here… the hunter, Hershel, that delicious bowl of baked beans, relinquishing her weapons in a satiated-haze…

She tried to stand, but gravity put up too much resistance for her battered body. She took a deep breath and tried again, pulling herself to her feet with geriatric stiffness. A deep, hot ache radiated from her side with each movement. The cell was mostly bare, but she spied Daryl's crossbow against the wall by a messy stack of clothes and a pile of broken bolts in the sink.

She may have handed over some of here weapons, but not all. They didn't know about the box cutter blades stashed under the soles of her shoes. Quickly she untied her boot and retrieved the blade. She pulled a lighter and snatched up the toothbrush atop the stack of clothes. She held the bottom end above the flame until it became mushy and shoved the blade halfway through.

 _When in Rome_ , she mused as made sure the blade was wedged in firmly. The shank wouldn't have much stopping power, but with surprise on her side she might be able to open a throat. For lack of anywhere better to find it, she tucked the shank between her sock and boots so that it was concealed by her grubby jeans. She pulled out a yard of blue paracord and wrapped it loosely her left wrist and tied it with a slippery hitch for an easily accessible garrote.

She was surprised to find the cell door unlocked. The block looked empty and she crept out and down the stairs.

"Good morning," a woman with chestnut hair smiled up at her. She was sitting against the wall below. She put down a book and stood when she saw Jo. She was in her mid-twenties, close to Jo's age, pretty and fresh-faced.

"Where're my weapons?" Jo growled.

The smile ran away from the woman's face. "We're holding onto them for the time being, until we get to know you a little better. It's okay. You won't need them here."

Jo watched her with cold, disbelieving eyes.

"My name's Maggie. You must be hungry. You've been asleep over a day."

"I could eat," Jo admitted, a greedy glint displacing her skepticism. She followed Maggie into the entry room where Hershel had patched her up. Maggie tossed her a can of fruit cocktail and an opener.

"Dad asked me to show you around so you can see what kind of people we are." Maggie gave her a winsome smile.

"Your dad?" Jo asked as she chewed into a pineapple. She immediately regretted the words as Maggie began to talk at length about her father Hershel, her sister Beth, and her husband Glenn. Jo slurped from the can and tried not to hear the warmth and fondness in her voice that elicited in Jo a jealous anger and precipitous grief. Sticky sweet juice coated her lips and throat. Maggie glanced over at Jo and whatever she saw made her pause. A realization lit her face and she winced. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean… we've all lost someone but I can't imagine what you've been through, being on your own out there."

"No," Jo agreed darkly. She'd lost everyone she'd ever known. She shoved down the black thoughts and tried a distraction. "Why are y'all helping me?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," Maggie replied easily.

Jo chewed on that answer. It had been a long time since she'd given concepts like 'right' and 'wrong' any thought. Experience had found that dwelling on the complexities of morality hindered survival. She'd opted to live a simpler life. There was just alive or dead. Alive was good and anything that kept her alive was good. She didn't see the good in giving away supplies to a half-dead stranger.

She spent the next few hours touring the prison. Maggie introduced her to at least a dozen people they encountered and walked her through important sections. Maggie guided her out into the yard and past a crew constructing the frame of a covered pavilion. Maggie explained that with so many new mouths to feed the fires they needed for cooking ended up being too large for the unventilated indoors. Jo glimpsed Daryl, arm in a sling, holding a plank as another man sawed it in two. As they walked the perimeter, Maggie made valiant efforts to keep up conversation which mostly resulted in cheerful monologues. Jo took note of two holes in the outer chain link, one closed with wire and the other with two carabiners. Block B and the windowless interior section they called the Tombs were overrun.

When they finally came to D Block, Jo had to admit that the place seemed legit. What sold her were the people. Unlike any of the other groups she'd encountered in the last year, the prison group included both elders and children. It meant they protected the weak. There was no gain from keeping the few of the gray-haired crones she spied around. Maggie took her up the stairs to an empty cell on the far end. It held a porcelain sink and toilet and a metal bunkbed upon which sat a clean, folded stack of laundry.

"This one's all yours. There's towels and a clean change of clothes if you want to take a shower."

"A shower?" It had been so long…

Maggie grinned and took her down to the bathroom which housed a large, communal shower and showed her how to operate the pumps.

"We can wash your old clothes. Dinner will be in a few hours. Feel free to relax in the meantime. I'm going to help clear on the fence. If you need anything, come find me. Or feel free to ask anyone around here."

Jo mumbled her thanks and Maggie left her alone. A long mirror hung above the sinks and Jo found herself staring at a filthy savage. Its face was a grimy mask of dirt and old blood. Short, dark hair jutted it in blood-stiffened spikes making her look rabid. Jo bared her teeth in a silent snarl and watched the filthy savage do the same. Then she peeled off her clothes which were so dirty they clung to her and turned on the shower.

The cold spray left goosebumps on her skin. She watched as most of her tan melted away in a wash of mud and blood. Soap and shampoo were already there. She scrubbed until her skin was pink everywhere it wasn't bruised. There were a lot of bruises. She cleaned around her bandages gingerly. Finally, clean as she'd ever been, she left the shower and dried off with a thick towel.

She wiped the mirror to get a look at her clean self. This one was a stranger too. She looked years older than Jo. She'd acquired deep lines around her eyes and mouth. Her eyes were dark and hollow. The right side of her face was an ugly purple bruise. She'd been told a few times growing up she had a vulnerable mouth. It didn't look soft and inviting anymore; it was a hard line. She tested a smile, but it looked strained and out-of-place. Free of weeks of dirt and grime, her hair had lightened back to a reddish brown. She'd cut it as short as she could after Columbus. Now ragged strands brushed the tops of her ears and gave her a wild, waif-like look.

She stared at the heap of her filthy clothes. They should be burned, she grimaced and slipped into a clean white t-shirt and orange jumpsuit. It was too baggy by far and she felt vulnerable without underwear. But it was clean and that outweighed all the cons. She gathered up her old clothes and returned to her new cell.

She sat on the bottom bunk and contemplated a life behind bars. It seemed so barbaric, locking someone up, depriving them of choice. And then she was thinking back to her last cage… cold metal against her skin, unable to stretch or move.

She felt sick. The walls closed in, the shadows trying to swallow her. It was hard to breathe. Panic crept up her spine and she couldn't sit still any longer. She fled down the stairs and out to the yard. Warm sunlight flooded over her. She threw herself against a brick wall and sucked down big gulps of air.

"Are you alright?"

She looked over to see a young boy of maybe thirteen. He had shaggy brown hair and serious, blue eyes.

Jo nodded, still panting. "I just… needed some air."

"Do you get claustrophobic?"

Jo shrugged. She wasn't about to discuss her fears with this stranger, even if he was a kid.

"You're new, right? You just came in with Daryl?"

Jo nodded. She struggled to get her breathing and nausea under control. Food gave her a future and she refused to lose a single morsel to bad memories.

"I'm Carl. It's okay. You don't have to be scared. You're safe here."

She ran a shaky hand through her still damp hair. The movement made her wrists ache dully, a lingering, painful reminder of everything she'd been through. She looked into his earnest face. He didn't know jack shit. "'Safe' is a lie adults tell you to make you and them feel better. Like Santa Claus or heaven."

"We're safe here because we're strong. We know what's out there. We've had to fight people to keep our home and we're still here."

That piqued her interest. "Who did you fight?"

Carl told her about the neighboring community of Woodbury whose leader, the Governor, had incited the townsfolk into attacking the prison and, when that had failed, killed almost all of his own people before disappearing.

"He's still out there?"

"Daryl and Michonne have been looking for him, but they haven't found him yet."

Jo considered this new information carefully. A known enemy with unknown whereabouts was dangerous. She wondered what defensive measures they'd taken. Before she could ask, a gunshot rang out. Carl jumped to attention like a hunting dog catching a scent. Jo spied a figure riding toward the gate on a chestnut horse. A few people along the fence and the worker in the field were already running toward the gate. Carl relaxed perceptively.

"Who is it?" Jo asked.

"A friend," he called over his shoulder as he too hurried toward the entrance. The rider was a dark-skinned woman, Jo saw as she gracefully dismounted. Carl ran up to the woman and Jo could see they were engaged in conversation by the movement of their heads. Jo felt uncomfortable watching them and decided to take advantage of her lack of supervision and poke through all the corners.

She made her way to the library and breathed in the stale perfume of old books. In a different life, she'd considered herself an avid reader. It had been months since she'd had the luxury to read. The selection wasn't as bad as she expected and she walked through the stacks spotting titles familiar as old friends. If the room had been empty, she might've stayed and read quietly but as it was she could feel the eyes from strangers clustered around a table as she browsed and it made her uneasy. She slipped a few old favorites into her bag and strolled over to the administration wing.

Voices in the warden's office caused her to veer into a side office. She heard a young man discussing plans for a supply run. She relaxed behind a desk and read until the group left. She sifted through the contents of the offices, but only came up with a pocketful of paperclips and a metal fine-pointed pen which she stuck inside her collar. Anything could be a weapon.

The warden's office had been had turned into a sort of intelligence headquarters. A map of the area showed the town of Woodbury just a mile away and Atlanta thirty miles north. Push pins filled the map sporadically, signifying, Jo assumed, either spots they had hit or would hit for supplies. But it was the prison blueprints that she poured over critically, committing to memory the two main escape routes—one out through the fence and one through the Tombs.

Afternoon faded into evening. Jo preferred being on her own and found the undisturbed quiet refreshing. Yet as the light began to ebb, Jo slunk down the darkening halls toward D Block. In the intense quiet, she heard the soft tap of approaching footsteps and on impulse she quickly side-stepped into the library.

A moment later the door opened and a light flared in her eyes.

"Jo?"


	5. Chapter 5

"Jo?"

The voice belonged to someone young and unsure.

"Uh, yeah?" Jo threw a hand up to shield her eyes as she stepped out from behind a stack into the beam of light.

"Carol sent us to find you," a different voice piped. Jo could just discern two children behind the light. "I'm Mika. This is Lizzy. We're supposed to get you for dinner. Whatcha doing all in the dark in here?"

"I was, uh, reading and I fell asleep. I don't have a flashlight. Watch where you aim that," Jo winced as the erratic beam of light blinded her for the second time.

Lizzy apologized and Jo obligingly followed them out of the library.

"Is it true you got shot?" Mika asked as they padded along the dark hallway.

"Yeah."

"Did you really kill two people?" Lizzy asked.

"Yeah."

"Cool."

"But they were bad people, right?" Mika asked. "That's what Daryl said."

"Yeah."

"Carol says that everyone gets scared, but that's the time you have to fight the hardest to be brave," Mika chirped.

Brave… what a scam. Eric and Gibson had been brave and it didn't stop them from getting their faces blown off. Yuki had been brave and it got her butchered alive.

"Bravery gets you killed," she replied sourly.

"But you didn't run away. You fought. Carol said you saved Daryl. That's pretty brave. Weren't you scared they were going to kill you?" Lizzy asked.

Jo's nose caught the savory scent of cooked meat. But while her stomach perked up with a primitive excitement, her mind couldn't help but recoil from the unbidden memory of how delicious _Yuki_ had smelled. But they probably weren't cooking people here. Probably.

Jo did find it suspicious they would send two little girls to find a stranger in the dark. Were they that stupid? Trusting a basket-case like her with their children's lives? Or were they trying to put her at ease so the lost little lamb wouldn't see the butcher knife? If so, Jo swore she'd try to find a way to take these two with her.

"Death isn't the scary part."

"What do you mean?"

Jo hesitated. It had been a long time since she'd been around children, but ingrained social etiquette warned her not to start a discussion of rape and cannibalism with preteens. "Once you die, it's over. People can't hurt you anymore."

"It's not over when you die," Lizzy said.

"Maybe not technically, but you're sure as hell not yourself anymore."

"But you're something," Lizzy insisted.

"Yeah, but whatever it is, it isn't you." Jo was starting to get exasperated. "Those _things_ don't feel pain or love or sorrow. Just hunger."

"You're hungry," Lizzy said as if it proved something. "Everyone gets hungry, even the walkers."

"Ignore her," Mika muttered as they came to the double wide doors to the cafeteria. As the girls pushed open the doors, Jo's ears were assaulted by the clamor of people talking, chewing, and clattering of utensils.

"We found Jo in the library," Mika announced loudly, bringing the attention of the entire room down on them. Jo's heart skipped as almost two dozen heads turned toward them. Jo glared at the girls—obviously sisters, she could now see in the light of a dozen lanterns and candles.

A man called the girls names. Mika flashed her a big smile and her human shields dashed away and left her standing awkwardly in the doorway. She dropped her head and forced her feet toward the serving table where Carol lorded over a giant, steaming pot. Carol offered her a bowl with a smile.

"What is it?" Jo hesitated.

"I'm calling it almost-beef stew. It's got carrots, peas, groundnuts, and the last of our beef stock, too. It's good, just don't ask what the meat is. Daryl isn't too discerning about what he shoots."

Despite her un-reassuring answer, Jo took the bowl. She surveyed the room from the corner of her eye. Nearly two dozen people were spread around tables positioned in a ring. She tried to ignore all the curious eyes. She spied a familiar shaggy head sitting at a far table and approached tentatively. When he saw her, Daryl shifted over on the bench seat.

Hershel smiled welcomingly as she sat across from him. "How's your side feeling?"

"S'okay," Jo mumbled and took a bite of stew. It was delicious—no, it was goddamn delicious. It was so fucking good she decided in an instant that she didn't give a shit if it was people.

"I heard Maggie gave you the grand tour. So what do you think?"

"It's… big."

Hershel chuckled. "It's good you think so. Most people get a little claustrophobic the first week or so, but we've been doing our best to make this place our home."

Jo grunted noncommittally and shoveled down her stew.

"So, uh, Jo," Carl interrupted her feasting from up the table where he sat between Rick and Maggie's husband Glenn. "Where are you from?"

"North Carolina, originally. But I was down in Ocala when dead people started walking around and eating people."

"I heard the Army set up a safe zone in Pensacola," Glenn said.

"It was the Navy, but yeah," she said with a mouth full of stewed goodness. "That's where we went first."

"What happened?"

She shrugged. "More and more people kept showing up. After the Navy lost contact with command, supplies started running short and tensions climbed. Eventually some shit-for-brains started a riot—this was before everyone knew you came back no matter how you died—and things just fell apart. The military opened fire on everyone, the fences got overrun. It was chaos. I barely made it out."

"Atlanta was the same. I got there right after the refugee camp had fallen. The Army dropped napalm in the streets. It was like a warzone," Glenn said.

"You know…" Jo heard herself say, much to her own surprise, "y'all got a pretty nice set up here, but you should really think about building a better outer wall—either concrete or dirt, something heavy and dense. Relying on those chain link fences is a mistake. Sooner or later, they're gonna give."

"You've seen what it's like out there," a mocha skinned woman down the table interjected. "Any group we send out gets swarmed. We've tried drawing them away with cars, but for every one we draw away we attract two more."

"Well… you could maybe cover up the inner fences? Biters wouldn't see into the yard as much so they won't be as compelled to crowd up. That should make it easier to draw them away."

"It's not a bad idea, Sasha," Hershel shot the woman a pointed look that Jo didn't understand.

"We'd still have to clear the fences to stop them from piling up so there's no getting out of their sight," Sasha replied, giving Hershel a look of her own.

"Oh. Right," Jo sighed. "That's a shame." Without proper fences, this place was destined to fall.

"Besides," Sasha continued, "we don't want to lose our visibility. If we get attacked, another group could be on us before we knew it."

"Well, you have watchtowers," Jo said snidely, not appreciating her idea getting shredded. "If the Governor comes back, an inner barricade would give you a stronger defensive line. Sure you can't shoot through it, but neither can they." The relaxed, friendly atmosphere of the table dissipated and Jo suddenly found herself surrounded by hard, suspicious faces.

"How do you know about the Governor?" Glenn asked. His friendly tone was gone.

"Carl told me," she squeaked, realizing her mistake. Her eyes darted warily around the table as she slipped her left hand down closer to her hidden blade, ready to snap into action at the first signs of trouble.

"It's true," Carl said from his seat between Rick and Glenn. His admission earned him stern looks from the table.

"Daryl said you were out on your own when he met you," Rick said. Jo's gaze snapped to him and she had a sinking feeling in her gut. She knew what was coming next. "What happened to your group?"

It was only natural for them to be curious. And now, when everyone was gathered was probably the best time to get it over with. Tell it once and be done... but she found her voice caught in her throat. Just thinking about what happened to her, to her friends, made her nauseous. But they were watching her expectantly. Everyone except Daryl, who kept eating beside her.

"They died," she managed to mutter.

"What happened?"

"We were heading to Athens," she admitted reluctantly. "One of the guys had some family there. My group got ambushed going into Columbus. There were only seven of us by then. Snipers took out all the guys before we even knew we were under attack. Then others rolled up and captured the rest of us."

"How did you get away?" Rick asked. The room was silent. Jo could see the others around the room leaning toward them, not even trying to disguise their interest in her story.

"I didn't, at first," she said stiffly, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. "They kept up chained up. For days they…" Dark memories made her throat tighten dangerously. She took a ragged breath. Daryl's leg pressed against hers. She glanced over at him, but he otherwise ignored her.

"They, uh, they moved around a lot. Usually they chained us up in the back of a pickup when we moved, but the guy who was supposed to lock me in... he, uh, got distracted and forgot. I waited until we were passing over a bridge and jumped. Lucky for me, there was a river at the bottom so I swam ashore and got the hell out of Dodge." More or less.

Silence hung in the air after she finished.

"Man, and I thought our run in with the Governor was bad," Glenn shook his head.

"It's easy to forget that even in a world overrun by monsters, people are still the worst of them all," Hershel said ruefully.

"Some things never change," Rick nodded.

"Pretty impressive you managed to escape that and make it all the way here on your own," Sasha said.

"I guess," Jo muttered into her stew. It would've been more impressive if she'd hadn't run, if she'd turned back and taken out every last sonvuabitch—not just the three that chased her. Daryl's leg moved away from hers, leaving her cold and alone in a sea of strangers.

"I'm sorry for what happened to your people," Rick said. "I know how savage people can become out there. Ready to take everything they can from you."

His eyes bored into her expectantly. She couldn't think of a proper response so she settled on empty flattery. "Y'all are the first decent people I've run into."

"They're in short supply these days, like everything else," Hershel nodded as if she'd confirmed something. "You're welcome to stay with us until you're healed up. After that, it will be up to the council whether you stay on with us."

"Thanks," Jo muttered. A popularity contest. That's all democracy ever was when you got down to it. They left her alone after that, thankfully. Thinking about Columbus left her feeling raw and tense. She'd lost her appetite, but she ate anyway. Every bite she took meant she could live another day.

Dinner ended with talk of chores and what needed to be done. Jo was instructed to help Carol in the kitchen. In a different lifetime, she'd have stomped her feet and screamed misogyny, but now she was just happy to be near a steady food supply.

A woman named Karen volunteered to accompany her back to D Block. "It's like a labyrinth in here. It took me weeks to figure out my way around."

"How long have you been here?"

"About a month. Rick and his group found me after… after my last group was slaughtered by the man we'd elected as leader. They saved my life. I've been with them ever since."

She seemed sincere. "And you like it here?"

"Well, it isn't the Ritz-Carlton, but it's safe. They're good people here. Don't let Rick get to you. I know he comes on strong, but he really is a good man. He just wants to make sure everyone is safe."

"I get it," Jo said neutrally as they came to her cell. Despite talk of a council and voting, Jo got the feeling that these people still looked to Rick as a leader. But he put her on edge. She could see something violent and volatile just below his surface.

Karen retreated with the light and Jo was swallowed by darkness. She eased herself down onto the bunk. The air was still and heavy. Like a grave. Appropriate considering her friends were all ghosts. Their faces crowded her vision, their screams and pleas echoed in her ears. Her eyes burned _._

 _I'm done crying for them_ , she told herself furiously. She forced herself to focus on her present situation. She mentally traced the routes she'd learned until all she could hear in the cell block was muffled snoring. With painstaking slowness, she opened her cell door. The hinge clicked and gave a metallic groan.

She crept out of her cell and down the stairs like a mouse.


End file.
